


We Never Cry: Superhero AU

by abutterflyobsession, Donotquestionme



Category: Strange Magic (2015), strange magic fandom
Genre: Bog is a supervillain of a sort, Bog is not a mad scientist just a grumpy one, F/M, Strange Magic, strange magic 2015, strange magic fandom - Freeform, superhero au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-31
Updated: 2017-02-10
Packaged: 2018-05-30 05:51:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6411403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abutterflyobsession/pseuds/abutterflyobsession, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Donotquestionme/pseuds/Donotquestionme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"	Shards of glass were still falling from the shattered ceiling, speckling the floor like crystallized raindrops, but the figure looming up out of the dust from the smashed wall walked through the razor-sharp rainfall without concern. Boots ground the glass into the polished floor and kicked up the broken pieces, sending them glittering in front of him."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One: Broken Worlds

**Author's Note:**

> We never cry for love - We're superheroes  
> We are back where we belong  
> We never cry for pain - We're superheroes  
> Make a stand where we belong
> 
> (Superheroes by Edguy)

 

 ****Marianne tried not to fidget with her sleeves.

The snug sleeves of her red dress covered the length of her arms, ending in points over the backs of her hands. Loose outer sleeves belled out over them, from the elbow down, moving when she moved, the two layers of fabric reminding her constantly of their presence and the need for them. Marianne kept wanting to tweak the fabric, adjust the fitted inner sleeves when they rode up slightly to reveal her knuckles, pull out the loose outer layer to make them drape correctly.

That, or rip them off entirely. The sleeves, the dress, it was all a disguise. She had caved to her father and agreed to present the front of the demure and completely normal Marianne Fairwood. Pretend that the very foundations of her world had not been cracked and were slowly splitting apart day by day.

But when her father had implored her to come to the party there had been part of her that was in agreement with him. Part of her that wanted to turn the clock back to simpler times. Happier times.

“Please come to the party!”

Marianne’s father had pleaded with her the day before the charity event. She had already resolved not to be swayed by her father’s begging, but she could already feel herself weakening when she saw the entreaty in his eyes. A twinge of guilt pinched Marianne’s heart. He just wanted things to be the way they were before. When she was happy. When they were all happy. She felt guilty for refusing him this simple request, even if the thought of going out and making small talk turned her stomach.

“Show up and wave to the press so they don’t think the Fairwood heiress has completely vanished, yeah?”

The bitter words rolled easily off her tongue. She was tired of the tabloids’ speculation about why Marianne Fairwood, heir to Fairwood Technologies, had suddenly become so reclusive. The resentful anger that swept over her when she saw their wild guessing was so intense sometimes that she ended up shredding the magazine to confetti, if she didn’t just pitch it across the room. Preferably through a window.

“No!” Her father said quickly. Too quickly.

He was anticipating this objection because it was one of the main reasons he was requesting her presence. Marianne knew her father loved her, that he wanted her to be happy. She also knew that he wanted her to be happy in a way that was socially acceptable and would look good to the company stockholders. If Fairwood couldn’t keep his daughter in check then how could he keep his business running properly? Bad press was bad for business. Marianne knew the line.

“I was hoping that you and Dawn … and me … just together. As a family. And if nothing else, please come and keep an eye on that flirtatious sister of yours!”

Marianne screwed up her face, knowing she had lost this argument the moment the guilt had hit her, but unwilling to go quietly into the night. It didn’t matter, her father still knew her well enough to see when she was giving in and he wrapped her in a hug.

The embrace made her stiffen. She had forgone any sort of physical affection for so long that her skin prickled uncomfortably at being touched. But it was her dad, smelling of aftershave and freshly starched dress shirts, and she had missed the closeness they had once shared. So she relaxed, letting out a breath, and hugged him back.

After all, it was only a party. It was a small price to pay to make her father and sister happy.

How bad could it be?

Bad enough.

Marianne chafed at her dress. Dawn had said she looked stunning in it and no doubt she was right, but that didn’t make the thing anymore comfortable to wear. Heavy red beading decorated the high collar and inner sleeves, wrapping in a glittering trail around her waist to trickle down her skirt that swept the floor and hid her black heels. The red pattern on red fabric made for subtle variations to underline the otherwise bold statement of her outfit.

A statement that wasn’t really hers. The only part of look for the evening that she had any real say in was her makeup. Smokey purple shaded around her eyes and deep red lipstick that made her mouth a dark slash in her pale face. And, thanks to lately spending most of the sunlit hours asleep, she was very pale indeed.

She felt trapped. By her clothing, by the bright lights and relentless stares of both the guests and the press. The heavy warmth of a room filled with bodies on a summer evening only added to the discomfort of the restricting dress. The fight to keep a smile on her face—and failing that, a neutral expression—was one she was losing. Each polite, probing comment about her unexplained absence from society chipped away at her resolve to behave herself.

Dawn fluttered onto the scene just in time to save someone from getting an earful. Floating along in a light, sleeveless blue summer dress with an outer layer of gauzy fabric that drifted lightly around her as she linked her bare arm with Marianne’s crimson sleeve and dragged her sister off.

“He was driving me crazy.” Marianne grumbled in a preemptive attempt to cut off Dawn’s inevitable rebukes. “The man’s an idiot and somebody needs to let him know.”

“And you’ve taken it upon yourself to be that person?”

“I was there, I was willing and capable …”

“Of punching him?”

“Not … _necessarily._ ”

“Marianne,” Dawn’s soft face pinched into her best attempt at a stern frown, “Just because the outcome of most of your … nocturnal outings … is to smack some poor mugger around–”

“Poor, nothing, most of them have weapons.”

“But do you have to keep hitting them after you’ve disarmed them?”

“… yes?”

Dawn took a deep breath and closed her eyes for a moment to compose herself. “Just because that’s your solution to _those_ problems–” She began again, “–doesn’t mean it’s the solution to _all_ your problems. I’m not even really sure it solves those problems.” Dawn tightened her grip on Marianne’s arm and leaned lightly against her sister, “I agreed to help you and keep dad in the dark because I thought it would make your happy again. At least a little.”

“I’m happy!” Marianne protested quickly. Too quickly. It no more convinced Dawn than their father’s feeble excuses had convinced Marianne earlier. “I am.” Marianne said, hoping repetition would stand in the place of conviction.

“Then stop skulking and scowling around the edges of the party like somebody with a dark and tragic secret.” Marianne opened her mouth to say something sarcastic but Dawn gave her sister’s arm a light smack. “Don’t even start, Marianne.”

Marianne smiled. Sheepish, but sincere.

“Anyway,” Dawn sniffed, “You’ve got to tone it down. All the guys are getting scared to talk with me because they’re afraid my big sister is going to go ballistic on them.”

“If they tried anything I’d–” Marianne’s smile slipped back into a scowl.

Dawn pinched Marianne’s wrist. “See, that’s just the sort of thing that’s turning me into a wallflower.” She sighed, “There was this guy with this gorgeous red hair that was totally cute, but then he saw you piercing him with your keen gaze from across the room and he ran for it.”

“I think I saw him pocketing silverware.”

“That doesn’t mean he wasn’t cute and probably a great dancer.” Dawn replied, putting her nose haughtily into the air. “What with all the projects I’m involved in lately I barely get out of the lab. I don’t care if they’re planning to steal the whole ballroom, just give me enough space so I can get a dance or two in. Maybe you–”

“I’m not dancing.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m a terrible dancer, hello? You were there when I tripped and fell into a potted plant.”

“That was years ago! You’re so much more poised now! You ought to get some benefit from all the endless mixed martial arts classes that doesn’t involve … unrestrained carnage.”

“If a guy tried to dip me I’d probably end up flipping him onto this back. Best leave me to lurk. _Please_ , leave me to lurk. I’ll lurk around the buffet and cram things in my mouth so I won’t say anything stupid. Actually, I think they had cheesecake …”

“When did you get such a sweet tooth? Okay. Fine.” Dawn huffed, “I wash my hands of you. For the evening. You do look nice, Marianne. Red is your color.”

Marianne bit back half a dozen comments about the weight of the dress, how it was hot and uncomfortable underneath all the lamps, how her arms itched, how she felt like she couldn’t breathe. She bit them all back and swallowed them down. Because Dawn had designed the dress herself, taken Marianne’s measurements, fitted it, and done a whirlwind of last minute alterations.

“Thanks, Dawn. It’s an amazing dress. You, um, look nice too.”

“You’re welcome! Oooh, there’s that guy with the most adorable dimples! I’m gonna go grab him for the next dance! Have fun with the buffet. _Try_ not to rot your teeth or punch anybody while I’m gone, okay?”

“I’ll do my best.”

Marianne watched Dawn cross the ballroom, alternating between gliding and skipping. She watched as Dawn easily secured a dance partner and whirled onto the floor. For a few turns Marianne watched them, but them remembered she wasn’t supposed to pierce anyone with her keen gaze and directed her eyes upwards at the ceiling.

The glass panes were dark and reflected the dazzling brilliance of the party below so that the light and sparkle seemed to be doubled and doubly inescapable.

Tugging at her sleeves, Marianne trailed over to the buffet table, feeling more trapped than ever. She had grown up expected to fulfill a certain role, behave a certain way, and for a long time she hadn’t noticed the cage that those expectations had built around her. Now she had changed and the comfortable prison had become binding and suffocating. Again and again she lashed out against it, but try as she might she could not break free of it. Sometimes, at night, she slipped free for a little while. Then morning came and she was dragged back to unwelcome reality.

She looked up at the ceiling again, searching for a sky she couldn’t see.

Just a few panes of glass between her and the cool night air. Fragile. Breakable.

Why couldn’t she just break free?

* * *

 

Shards of glass were still falling from the shattered ceiling, speckling the floor like crystallized raindrops, but the figure looming up out of the dust from the smashed wall walked through the razor-sharp rainfall without concern. Boots ground the glass into the polished floor and kicked up the broken pieces, sending them glittering in front of him.

Marianne had dashed from the buffet table and onto the dance floor, throwing herself on top of Dawn when the ceiling began to come down, and now she cautiously sat up, brushing glass off the long sleeves of her red dress, feeling the sting of a dozen tiny cuts across her palm and then ignoring them when she grabbed Dawn’s hand and pulled her back to her feet.

The thunder of the wall crumbling, the rain of glass shattering around them, were still ringing in her ears and the distressed shouts around the room were merely muffled background noise to her. All she could focus on was the tall, narrow form striding toward them, its shoulders rolled forward, a long gray coat flapping out behind it. The footsteps of its heavy boots seemed to fall in time to the strangely steady beating of her heart.

When a dark, gloved hand pointed an unsettlingly long finger at Marianne’s father her heart decided it was time to speed up and she nearly couldn’t breathe for the pounding of it in her chest. Dawn was hugging Marianne tight, trapping her arms and restricting her movements.

The ceiling had opened up, fallen in, and the remaining traces of Marianne’s old world crumbled away to nothing.

The finger pointed and the gray shape came nearer. It wasn’t right, it didn’t belong here in the elegant ballroom, so it had brought clouds of dust and the twinkle of jagged shards of glass, its world invading hers.

“I warned you, Fairwood!”

The gray creature’s voice rang out and Marianne winced, the sounds of the room rushing back in full force as if the warning had broken some spell of silence. Everything went from distant and muffled to an overwhelming roar, throwing Marianne further off-balance. Enough that when two masked figures darted up out of the dust and chaos she wasn’t quick enough to stop them from snatching Dawn away.

“Dawn! No!”  Marianne lunged forward, reaching out toward the hand that Dawn had thrown out, seeing her sister’s soft face streaked with dust and lined with fear, her big blue eyes sparkling with terror. Marianne’s grab missed by inches when she was brought up short, anchored by the arm her father had wrapped around her elbow.

“Dad!” Marianne nearly screamed in outrage and frustration.

“No!” He pulled her back and stood in front of her, “Not you too!”

But his bravado was useless, more masked people came out of the dust and grabbed Marianne and her father, pushing them down to their knees. Large hands gripped Marianne’s arms, chafing her sleeves against her arms to such an uncomfortable degree that she had to grind her teeth together to bite back a curse.

The gray creature walked past this little by-play, apparently paying it no mind, still focused on Mr. Fairwood as it spoke, “I warned you that if you didn’t give back the serum there’d be … trouble.”

Marianne couldn’t see the gray man’s face, but his tall, thin build was distinctive, as were his methods. Deliberate, calculated. Despite the dust and chaos of the explosion the wall had been removed with precision, leaving the structure of the building largely uncompromised, and the thugs moved swiftly, herding the guests into a corner. Security was nowhere to be seen and it was likely that the police wouldn’t be here in time to make any sort of difference. No, he always made sure to be gone by the time the authorities arrived.

The Bog King knew how to make an exit as well as an entrance.

“Now,”

The tall, gray man crouched down, remarkably long limbs folding up to allow him to come eye-to-eye with Marianne’s father. The Bog King and his cohorts were all wearing scarves tied around the bottom of their faces to ward off the glass and dust, goggles over their eyes, so that there was a disturbing blank, inhuman look to all of them. Now the tall man hooked a gray gloved finger into the scarf and pulled it down, revealing a long, pointed nose and an unshaven chin that jutted out to match.

“I told you, Fairwood, to return what was taken or I would have to take steps. Now you’ve got two options. Option one,” He jabbed a thumb into the air, “You give back everything you stole right now and I leave you to your festivities. Option two,” he raised a finger to join the thumb. “You continue to play dumb and force me to take your precious princesses hostage in exchange for my work.”

The words were growled—The Bog King sneering to display crooked rows of teeth—but they were steady and sounded almost reasonable as he laid out his terms. But the thin veneer of calm was stripped away the moment Marianne’s father stammered out that he didn’t know what he was talking about, what research? The Bog King slammed his fist into the floor next to Mr. Fairwood and Marianne could have sworn she felt the impact shock through her body. She flinched at the sudden, savage intensity, recoiling instinctively. But anger broke through her fear and she threw herself forward again, dragging against her captors’ hold, her breathing rapid and shallow as she fought to contain and direct her own fury.

“Don’t lie to me!” King roared, seizing Mr. Fairwood by the collar and standing up, dragging the shorter man out of the grip of the men holding him. Mr. Fairwood’s feet were barely touching the ground, King body curved into a hunch to shout in Mr. Fairwood’s face, “ _Do not lie to me!_ ” And he accompanied his words with a violent shake. “ _Give it back!_ ”

“He doesn't _have_ it!” Marianne screamed, drawing King’s attention to her for the first time. Dusty goggles turned to look at her. Mr. Fairwood nearly collapsed when he was released, slumping heavily to the floor. He made an effort to rally, but King’s men restrained him, shoving him back to his knees.

King smirked at her futile rage, looming over her even as he crouched. “Your heard my terms, princess. Return the research and you and your sister go free. Don’t,” He shrugged one shoulder and waved a hand, then clenched it into a fist, face contorting in a snarl, “And you’ll never see the light of day again.”

Marianne couldn’t see Dawn, she had vanished into the dust. Now her line of sight was filled with The Bog King’s sharp, sneering face. He was trying to scare her, getting into her space, so close she could feel the breath of his words. If Marianne hadn’t been about to burst with anger it might have made some sort of impact, might have unnerved her.

But he had burst through the ceiling. He had shattered her world and all the old rules with it. The cage of expectations was gone, there was no place for it in this bizarre confrontation.

What might have unnerved her in other circumstances now presented itself as a golden opportunity.

The outer sleeve of her right arm ripped off in her captor’s hand, tiny beads scattering over the floor, shiny red raindrops to join the sparkling crystal. Marianne’s right arm was free and she drove her fist into The Bog King’s smirking face.

“Touch my sister and I’ll have you head on a stick!”

Sharp pain cut across her knuckles, but a smile pulled across her face. It was little more than a baring of her teeth, but it held a glimmer of satisfaction.

Short-lived. King’s men pounced on her again, wrapping their arms around her and pushing her almost face-first into the floor. Marianne nearly missed seeing the dumbfounded look on King’s face when he pulled off the shattered remains of his goggles. Sadly, it seemed that none of the plastic shards had managed to reach his eyes, the damage mostly contained to a nasty curved cut under his right eye. He touched the cut and looked at the blood staining the fingertips of his gloves as if were the most mysterious thing he had ever seen.

An instant later his hand curled into a fist and his face hardened back into its former expression of barely contained rage. His breathing was short and ragged, as if he were fighting to keep himself from lashing out.

He thrust a hand out to one side, palm up. He didn’t look, or even speak, but one of his people dropped a tall metal staff into his hand. It was plain metal, as gray and colorless as the rest of King’s person. He gripped it and stepped forward, going from stationary to moving so quickly that he blurred in Marianne’s vision and she was barely able to discern the dull shine of the staff as he lifted it above his head, as if he were going to slam it into her head.

The end of the staff slamming into the ground just inches from her head, the floor crazed with cracks.

Marianne swallowed hard and gritted her teeth. For a moment she had thought he would really do it. His eyes, his face, had been full of blind rage. But it seemed it had been a trick.  She would not be intimidated.

“If that’s the best you can do–!” She twisted to look up and fell silent when she saw King’s face. A look of manic glee, or dark fury, that was along the lines of what she was expecting.

Not vivid blue eyes, wide with horror.

Underneath streaks of dust and blood King’s face had lost what little color it had. He was crouched in front of her, hand still wrapped around the staff, the end of it planted in the cracked floor. He looked lost and unsteady, and was crouched awkwardly as if he had lost his balance—changed his direction at the last moment.

“I–” He took in an unsteady breath and she could see the nervous flex of his fingers around the staff, “I didn’t–”

A cold chill blossomed in Marianne’s chest. He had really meant to smash her head in. She had almost died, a helpless victim. The heat of anger reignited inside her at the thought of such a death, to be broken like some fragile doll, unable to even defend herself.

Again, King’s movements were so sudden that Marianne felt dizzy.

In a moment he was back on his feet, his back turned to her and when he spoke his words banished all thoughts of her own near miss, wrenching her mind back to more important concerns.

“One’s enough. Take the blonde one and go! We need to get out!” He flung out an arm, gesturing widely with the staff, “Move!”

King strode away and Marianne felt her captor’s hold begin to slacken.

“Dawn!” Marianne began to pull free, “Dawn!”

Another explosion rocked the room, knocking Marianne to the ground and kicking up a fresh cloud of dust. She looked up just in time to see King’s broad gray back disappearing into the haze, a dozen smaller shapes scuttling after him.

Pushing herself upright, Marianne’s hands curled into fists, scooping up glass and driving the shards into her palms.

“Dawn …” She grabbed her skirt, hitching it up past her knees as she stood, sprinting in the direction King had disappeared, her heels skidding on the rubble, “I’m coming, Dawn!”

* * *

 

“Go ahead, kill me.”

A whirlwind of blows, baton against staff, had seemed likely to go on indefinitely. However, dashing through alleyways and hopping across rooftops takes its toll on one’s energy and both of them had begun to flag. In his earpiece Bog had heard his team asking if he needed help. To be truthful, he probably did. But his pride would not let him admit that. As well, they were already too far away and he didn’t want to them risk capture if they turned back. So he had snarled out a “No! Go back to base!” The momentary distraction almost earning him a cracked skull, a baton brushing across his hair as he ducked.

Now the familiar taste of blood filled The Bog King’s mouth, trickling out of the corner and smeared across his chin when he ran the back of his hand across his face. Dark stains patched the back of his gray gloves and the collar of his coat. His opponent favored targeting the face, as evidenced by the Bog King’s split lip, bloodied nose, and the raw wounds on his cheeks and jaw. Sitting on the ground in the tangle of his long gray coat, staff out of reach, he looked straight at her and sneered, defiant, knowing the wreck of his face was unsettling to look at.

“You’d be doing me a favor, tough girl.”

The back of Bog’s head struck the asphalt sharply. His opponent had stamped one foot down on his chest, slamming him back against the ground. While he waited for his vision to clear and breath to return—which was taking a while since a heavy boot was still pressed down on his chest—he thought ruefully that this encounter had turned from irritating to amusing before sharply turning downright inconvenient. Possibly dangerous.

The masked woman—the tough girl—had charged after him, seething with white-hot fury. He had lagged behind the van on his motorcycle in order to draw off any pursuit from his crew and the hostage. It worked like a charm, when the vigilante had appeared behind him on her own motorcycle—a far less battered model than his—she had taken the bait and followed when he peeled off around a corner in the opposite direction of the van.

What he had not counted on was being unable to lose her.

Or that she would be so bold as to match speed with him and almost force him into crashing into the side of a building. He had wiped out, but gotten clear of the crash without anything more serious than some bruising and had been up and running in seconds, cursing the loss of his bike. He liked that bike. It wasn’t as if he could afford a new one. He’d ducked into an alley and climbed the fire escape up the side of the building, hoping to lose her that way.

Again, his pursuer proved stubborn. She roared into the alley and jumped off her bike, scaling the fire escape after him without a moment’s hesitation and had proceeded to chase him until they had ended up fighting in earnest in some alleyway far distant from Bog’s intended destination.

When he had met her challenge and they had begun to fight in earnest there had been a strange lull, a quick exchange of banter, a moment where it had been almost … fun. It had been such a long time since he’d fought a skilled opponent who could match him. Which was probably why he was on the ground right now. He’d underestimated her.

Not so much now.

“Go ahead. Kill me. But before you do,” Bog said, addressing the sturdy black combat boot resting on his chest, “Remember that if I die you’ll never see Dawn Fairwood again.” He let a twisted smile spread across his face, feeling a measure of smug satisfaction at maintaining an upper hand even when she obviously thought he was at her mercy. “Not even if you hand over the research.”

“Where is she?” The boot pressed harder and confirmed an earlier suspicion that he had at least one cracked ribbed. Red hot pain stabbed through his chest and the effort of breathing with the foot still pinning him down only made him feel like his ribs were about to snap completely in half. “Tell me!”

“Torture, princess?” He coughed, blood sticky on his face, “Thought you heroes didn’t go in for that sort of thing.”

“Just playing by the local rules.”

“Oh, _are_ you?”

The sarcasm in his voice made her flinch. He’d flicked on the raw there. Typical hero. Thought they were always in the right. Thought the world was black and white with the villains color coded for easy identification. Bog knew he certainly fit the role of villain to a hair, and he couldn’t deny that he played it up. It was not a role that he had chosen to take up, but rather been forced upon him by unfortunate circumstances. He had tried, he had really tried to do this right, but after years of trying to go through the right channels and getting nowhere he had given up. The last few years, after he had given in to the inevitable and decided to play the villain, he had made significant progress toward accomplishing his goals. He even allowed himself a tiny bit of hope that his efforts would not come too late. If not for him, at least for the others.

“You smashed your way into a charity event and held my—held Dawn Fairwood hostage, threated everyone, and then abducted her! And if you don’t give her back then it’s only going to get worse for you.”

Tough Girl’s lips, painted dark red, parted in a snarl of her own. Bog could hear the anger in her voice. Anger was an old friend of his and he recognized it in others. Hers was hot and new, powerful but unfocused. The wounds on his face were no picnic and probably looked gruesome, but the damage was not as severe as it could have been. If she had focused more on blows to his torso and legs instead of targeting his face he might have been more effectively disabled.

But she hadn’t.

He grabbed her ankle and twisted, throwing her off balance. She stumbled backward and he scrambled to his feet, rolling to the side to avoid a swipe of her stick. She had multiple collapsible batons tucked under her jacket, which made it blasted hard to disarm her properly, even if he admired her forethought. Bog snatched up his metal staff and spun around in time to block the next baton blow. Their weapons were crossed and his stance allowed him to be almost on eye-level with Tough Girl.

“You’re that new vigilante. The one who keeps breaking jaws.” He said, taking in the dark purple and black patterned mask that covered her face. It was a butterfly, he realized. The wings of a butterfly masking her face. It seemed an odd choice of theme for such a ruthless fighter. Lately she had been making the papers, held up as an example of vigilante violence getting out of control. Since her targets appeared to be people who absolutely deserved what they got Bog had rather admired the crime fighter. Even now he had to admire her, the tiny powerhouse who matched him blow for blow.

“And you’re the Bog King, Goblin of the Dark Forest.”

Bog rolled his eyes at the newspapers’ nickname for him. Over the years he had heard all the derogatory names the world could throw at him. With his tall, wiry frame and stooped way of standing he had been called a discontented bird of prey, a gangling tree, scuttling cockroach … and in recent years the frequency and creativity of the titles had only increased. Really, all told, ‘goblin’ wasn’t so bad. That had some style, at least.

Bog shoved away from the butterfly vigilante and they began to circle each other, looking for openings. He gave his neck a sharp twist to crack it, out of habit. He immediately regretted the movement, jarring all the injuries to his face. This made him grind his teeth together until the fresh wave of pain subsided.

He really ought to call for backup.

“What do they call you, then, princess? The Masked Butterfly? Princess Butterfly?”

“Some of us don’t need pretentious nicknames to do our work.” She snapped, “ _Bog King._ ”

“You do know … you do know that is actually my _name_ , don’t you?”

Both of them faltered, rather awkward.

“It is? I assumed … I mean … it’s kind of theatrical, isn’t it? I thought it was playing on your whole Scottish theme you have going.”

“I don’t have a _Scottish theme_!” Bog heard his accent thicken with his indignation, which he knew wasn’t helping his point, “I _am_ Scottish!”

“I knew that! I just thought you sort of played it up … for effect …” Her voice trailed away at the sight of his offended expression. “Well,” She said, rallying a little, “You do have a tendency for the dramatic. Considering your entrance earlier this evening.”

Bog wiped the back of his hand across his face again, wincing when he dragged dried blood across his rough stubble. “Have to get your lot’s attention somehow, butterfly.”

“Oh, you did that, no doubt. Far be it me to criticize your master plan, but wouldn’t have a little subtlety have been vastly more effective? Or, I don’t know, breaking into the lab where the research is instead of a charity event?”

“We tried subtle. We tried polite, even. That got us nowhere and we haven’t got much time left.”

“Time left?”

Without realizing it they had lowered their weapons. Bog had shifted to leaning on his staff, wrapping his gloved hands around it. There were tears in the fingertips of his gloves and he flexed his fingers idly, feeling the torn edges. The vigilante had crossed her arms, baton still in hand but pointed at the ground.

“What do you know about Fairwood Lab’s research into genetic manipulation?”

The question made the vigilante quirk up her red lips in a smirk that held very little actual humor. She ran a gloved hand through her already ruffled brown hair, absently adjusting her mask afterward. “Rather a lot. Just about everything. And if you think it’ll be a quick and easy way to manufacture some sort of super soldier then you’re sadly mistaken.”

“I don’t want the _serum_.” He snorted, “I want the _antidote_. The research for it, anyway. Which they stole from me in the first place!”

The vigilante’s eyes were almost hidden in the shadows of her mask but Bog was sure they narrowed, the lurking glitter of them disappearing. Her gaze was riveted on him with a sudden intensity he wasn’t prepared for. He felt like a bug under a magnifying glass, the focused rays of the sun about to set him on fire. She stepped forward and he automatically stepped back, but she grabbed the front of his coat and pulled him down to face her.

The baton had fallen to the ground and she grabbed his long chin, forcing his head one way then another. Not finding what she was looking for she shoved his face to one side and pinched the collar of his shirt, tugging it down to get a better look at the skin of his neck and over his collarbone. Bog knew she had confirmed her suspicions when her hands stilled and he heard her breath catch.

“How? When?” She asked, fingers curled around his collar, frozen in place.

“It's a long story.” He said heavily, looking away for a moment.

Bog looked down at her, the touch of her fingers on his neck more painful than any of his accumulation of battle wounds of the evening. It had been a long time since anyone had touched him. Since he allowed it. Since anyone wanted to. He waited for her shock to wear off, for her to pull away. For her eyes to carry the same disgust that everyone else's did.

“Is this . . . this looks like exoskeleton.” Fingertips moved, tracing the seam between normal skin and the hard ridge of grayish-green plates, feeling where it had begun to peel off around his neck, like a rigid collar. Bog closed his eyes for a moment when her hands came away.

They sprang open again in shock when he felt them return.

She had removed her gloves and resumed her inspection of his deformities, feeling the texture of the scales. “I didn't know the serum could even do something this drastic. This is . . . this is bad . . . I almost understand why you did what you did this evening. Almost.”

“Dawn Fairwood won’t be harmed, I swear. None of us want to hurt anybody. Just the research back. Are you … are you a scientist?” He ventured. That would explain her lack of aversion. He wasn’t sure if that was better or worse. He wasn’t found of being considered as a lab specimen.

“No. I’m just … I’m familiar with similar … cases. How far has it …?”

Bog finally managed to find the power to straighten up and step back. The vigilante seemed to realize how uncomfortable she had been making him and stepped back too, clasping her hands together and glancing away for a moment.

Bog took a breath and pulled off his own gloves. It went against the grain to show her and everything in him screamed at him to hide behind the safety of his coat and gloves, to hide himself in some dark space where no one could see him. But he bit his teeth together and ignored his instincts, dropped the useless gloves and held up his hands, displaying the armor that covered the back of his hands, the hard black claws that served him in the place of fingernails. The skin was the same grayish-green as his armor, paler on the underside.

“It covers my arms and shoulders and part of my back now. I can show you the notes on its progression. In my case and … the others.” He held out his hand, flexing the fingers that looked alien even to him. His voice was steady. It was easy to slip into the role of scientist and recite facts like he was reading them from a file. Easy to pretend that letting her see his hands was one of the most nerve-wracking things he had ever done.

It was a gamble. A huge gamble that might pay off. If she was connected to Fairwood, if she were willing to help him get the research back …

“Others?” She asked him, her voice cracking a little on the word.

“There are other … former test subjects. When my research was first stolen there were experiments. I’ve managed to find most of them, I think. So, you would believe me if I said I wanted that research for the cure and not some nefarious evil scheme?”

He tucked his hands under his arms and out of sight, relaxing the tiniest bit as he did.

“Maybe.” The vigilante considered, “Would you be willing to share any breakthroughs with Fairwood?”

“After they stole it from me in the first place?”

“You helped the other test subjects, what if there were others? Would you help them too?”

“I suppose so. It provides a wider pool for research, if nothing else.” He shrugged.

“Okay, because … well …”

The vigilante removed her mask and Bog blinked at her stupidly for a few moments, almost not placing the face revealed to him until he looked at her golden-brown eyes. But of course it was her. The little princess in her red dress, storming through a rain of glass to punch him square in the face. Who hardly flinched when he lost control and nearly smashed her head in with his staff. Of course she would be the same person as the ruthless little masked crime fighter who had forced him off the road and chased him across what felt like half the city.

“What the devil is the heir to the Fairwood fortune doing running around punching muggers and pickpockets?” He leaned his staff against the trashcan, tucking his hands back out of sight and tilting his head at her, trying to merge the idea of Marianne Fairwood with the reality.

“Following the trends, I suppose.” She folded up her mask and put it in her pocket, rubbing at the streaks of blood drying across her forehead. “It was either put on a mask or stay locked up in my room for the rest of my life.”

“I don’t …”

Marianne shrugged off her jacket and tossed it over a trash can, her movements quick. In the yellow light of the alleyway there was a sudden shimmer of color, of lavender fading into darker purple. Underneath her black jacket Marianne was wearing a sleeveless red tunic, her arms bare and shimmering. Bog’s eyes widened with understanding, realizing that her arms, from her shoulders down to the backs of her hands, were layered with scales. Not like his dull, earthen colored plates. No, these were vividly colored and softer, almost like feathers.

“What …?” Bog could barely breathe out the word.

“Butterflies.” The dry, humorless smirk was back on her face. “I was supposed to get wings but instead I just got the scales. Actually, I wasn’t supposed to get anything at all. There was an accident … My dad’s solution is to hide me most of the time. Eventually all the time, once it spreads too far.” She ran her hand down the scales. “They’re tougher than they look, which at least is some use.”

Tough and beautiful.

The words popped into Bog’s head uninvited and he wasn’t sure if they were supposed to be applied to the butterfly scales or Marianne. He looked away, hands digging into the fabric of his coat, trying harder to hide themselves from view.

“I don’t know who stole your work. Fairwood is a big company. But I do have some suspicions.”

“Like an overzealous father?” Bog suggested.

Marianne winced. “I don’t know. But I’m going to find out. First, I want to see your notes and go get my sister. And if she’s got so much as a scratch then there’s no deal and I’ll have your head on a stick!”

“It’s rather battered for a trophy of war.” Bog grumbled.

“I’m sorry. About your face. I kind of have some anger issues.” She kept running her hands down the scales, as if trying to reconcile herself to their presence. He was hard-pressed to keep from staring at the near iridescence of her arms until he saw her face and spotted the obvious self-consciousness there. He unfolded his arms and snatched up her jacket and baton.

“You can only have improved it, no fear. When you’re as hideous as me change can only help. Here.” He held out her belongings.

“… thank you.” She slipped her jacket on, making a face when the sleeves rubbed the scales the wrong way, then slowly took the baton, glancing up as if she expected him to snatch it back. “You’re … you’re not hideous, you know.”

“Huh.” He snorted, knowing better, but feeling oddly appreciative that Marianne would make an effort to be kind. He shoved his free hand in his pocket and held the staff by his side to obscure that hand as well. “Shall we go get your sister?”

“Yes. And discuss our next move.”

“'Our’?” Bog was surprised by the strange spark of eagerness that word brought out in him.

Marianne Fairwood shrugged, rubbing her sleeves. “I rather think we’re in this together now, don’t you?”

“I suppose we are.” Bog felt a smile comes across his face and couldn’t stop it.

“Good.” She put out her hand to shake his and once again he blinked at it, his brain working sluggishly. She was reaching out without hesitance and putting her hand in his, as if it wasn’t deformed, clawed, and horrible. He squeezed her hand warmly and was loath to release it. In fact, it was uncertain how long he might have retained it if headlights hadn’t suddenly flooded the alley with light.

Bog and Marianne threw up their hands to shield their eyes, squinting at the van pulling into the mouth of the alley. The window rolled down and a head was stuck out, “There you are! What do you mean by turning off your earpiece, you’ve had me worried sick! We’ve been frantic, looking for you—is that a _girl?_ ”

 

* * *

 

_This is what I was thinking of how Marianne’s arms look, like butterfly wings up close:_

 

  


 

 

__And her mask is rather like these, minus the glitter._  
_

 

  


 

 


	2. Partners in Crime

“Absolutely not.”

Bog folded his arms and set his jaw, looking down his nose at Marianne, resolved to be the victor of this particular encounter, regardless of the odds stacked against him.

“ _Why_ not?” Marianne asked, her own arms folded and her head tilted back so she could meet his glare with her own, “It's not bribery, it's not charity, it's not even a _gift_. It's me replacing something I damaged. I _owe_ you this.”

“Something you damaged? Is this about my bike or my face?”

Bog tucked his arms a little tighter, refusing to give into the temptation of pulling the gleaming new motorcycle upright and checking out its features. The bike sat where Marianne had parked it after she had ridden it around to the loading docks of the supposedly deserted warehouse with a complete lack of discretion.

“What would people think if they saw Marianne Fairwood hanging around empty warehouses?” Bog grumbled, turning the subject away from the motorcycle.

Marianne snorted and leaned on the bike, expression dark. “Marianne Fairwood is a nice young lady who smiles sweetly for the press and poses in front of microscopes in daddy's lab for promotional marketing. Marianne Fairwood does not ride motorcycles into the industrial area of town like some sort of--”

“Nocturnal vigilante?” Bog offered.

“Yeah. People aren't looking for _this_.” She gestured at her long black coat and heavy boots. “Not to mention I was wearing a helmet like a responsible motorcyclist.”

Bog was forced to unfold his arms to catch the helmet Marianne tossed at him.

“Hey! I said no!”

“Oh, did you? But if you said no, how are you going to make your dramatic exit next time you hit up Fairwood labs or some bank?”

“Isn't that something you should be appreciating? Your father owns Fairwood labs. You're a vigilante. I'm a “supervillain.” Bog made air quotes with his free hand. “One, I might add, who kidnapped your sister not two weeks ago.”

“Please, Dawn thoroughly enjoyed her outing. She's even more of a celebrity now and she's milking the situation for all it's worth. Also, she likes you. 'Boggy'.” Marianne rolled the nickname off her tongue, a smirk pulling at the corner of her mouth.

Bog covered his eyes with one gloved hand and sighed.

* * *

 

After his mother arrived at the alley Bog and Marianne piled in the van so they could leave the area as quickly as possible. Neither of them had been particularly quiet during their fight and who knew what sort of attention might have been attracted.

“What have you done to yourself now?” His mother demanded, seeing the wreckage of his face. She was so busy peering at him in the rear view mirror that she almost hit a car when she merged into traffic. Bog was thankful that she knew better than to delay their departure with questions, and she barely did more than exclaim a few times before they were well away from the alley.

“You came alone?” Bog asked, gripping the headrest of the passenger side seat as he leaned between the seats to talk to his mother. If he weren't so tired and aching he might have ripped his claws right into the headrest, the surge of panic at the thought of his mother being unprotected nearly drowning everything else out.

“Get back there.” Griselda waved one hand at him, “If somebody sees you all banged up like that we might get stopped.”

“You should have at least--”

“Everyone else was tired from the heist. Anyway, who'd pay attention to me? Some old lady in a van. Now, who's the young lady and how did you two end up looking like you came off for the worse in a fight with a blender? I said _sit down_!”

Griselda snapped and Bog retreated so swiftly that Marianne chuckled. This drew his mother's attention to Marianne and she squinted into the review mirror, studying the young woman's face in the dim interior of the van.

“Aren't you--?”

“This is Marianne Fairwood,” Bog broke in, “Marianne, Griselda. My mother.”

“Your . . . mom?” A spark of true humor lit up Marianne's eyes, the flash of passing street lights catching on glints of amber. “Your mom picked us up?”

“She's not supposed to be here.” Bog growled, hunching over further in his seat.

“It's just . . . it's just,” Marianne bit her lips to try and keep back a grin, “The mighty Bog King, scourge of the authorities, feared by the helpless citizens, on the FBI's most wanted list . . . got picked up by his mom like a kid who got in trouble for fighting.”

“It isn't funny. She's not supposed to be here. You're not supposed to be here, mother. You're one of the few free agents we have at our disposal, for one thing. For another, if anything happened to you I'd--”

“Hush, son, or you're grounded.”

A laugh exploded out of Marianne and she clapped her hand over her mouth too late to stop it.

Bog eyed her, irritated by her amusement and disconcerted by the thought of what trouble his mother might have gotten into, running around by herself. He was greatly displeased by how no one was taking any of this seriously.

“Marianne Fairwood?” Griselda said, “As in Fairwood Industries? From the looks of my boy I'd say you were an unwilling hostage, but from the way you jumped right in the car I'd say you weren't. First aid kit is under your seat, Bog, if anything is bleeding too much to wait until we're back.”

“I'm fine.” Bog snapped. Which was, of course, a lie. He could still feel Marianne's boot printed on his chest and the cracked rib lanced red hot pain over his torso when he breathed too deeply. “And you,” He glared at Marianne, “So pleased with yourself, but you still live at home with daddy, don't you?”

She shrugged off the barb, “Fair point. But I wasn't laughing at you, Bog. Or you, Mrs. King. It's just so . . . mundane. It doesn't seem to fit. Like we got into a scuffle on the playground and the principal called our parents to come pick us up.”

Bog finally gave a snort of laughter. “Yeah,” he said, looking at the petite crime-fighter sitting across from him. She had delicate features that could not be disguised even by her smeared makeup and the crust of dried blood streaked across her skin. The expressions he'd seen play across her face did not seem suited to it. The deep, seething anger, the wild glee of battle . . . now a weary grin that seemed almost companionable, like a friend sharing a joke. There was nothing delicate about those looks. And there was certainly nothing delicate about her fists.

“Yeah,” Bog said again, breath hitching from another stab from his ribs, “Yeah, I guess it really doesn't fit.”

* * *

 

The trip back to the Bog King's base gave Marianne enough time to catch her breath and start appreciating the extent of her own injuries. She was fairly sure she had a hand print on her ankle from when King had grabbed and thrown her off. Barred lines throbbed on her arms from her hasty climb up the fire escape of the building, and she could feel the glass in her hands that had been driven in deeper by her recent activities. Loosened scales were sliding around in the sleeves of her jacket, adding an irritating itch to her aches and pains.

To top it off she was _starving_. Wistful thoughts of the arrangements of chocolate dipped fruit on the buffet table that she had never gotten to eat, all of it miles away and coated in dirt and glass, danced in the back of her head. They linked arms with the thought that jumping into a car with The Bog King to some unknown destination was a bad idea. Feet planted on the floor, hand resting on a baton concealed in the lining of her coat, she kept a watchful eye on her new ally.

Likewise, he was watching her, eyes glinting from underneath heavy eyebrows that seemed to rest in a default expression of glowering suspicion. His staff was on the floor under his feet, though, and his arms were crossed tightly across his chest. Whenever they hit a pothole—or the occasional curb—Marianne could see him wince.

When he swung himself out of the back of the van he grunted when his feet hit the ground and he was limping when he led Marianne through the loading bay of what was apparently an empty warehouse. A twinge of guilt plucked at her. After the heat of battle passed she always got hit by guilt and a fear she had gone too far. It was worse now because she was seeing the results firsthand instead of reading about another drug dealer being hospitalized by the city's newest vigilante. She tried to console herself with her own bruises, but it didn't help much when they stepped into a lighted area and she could see exactly how wrecked King's face really was.

“Where is everyone?” King seemed to be confused and gestured for her to follow as he strode away in long, unsteady steps, heading toward an area sectioned off by stacks of empty boxes while Griselda bustled off across the warehouse, “They should have been back before me.”

“Where's my sister?” Marianne shot back, quickening her pace to keep up with him, even though her ankle was telling her she ought to find the nearest chair, sit herself down in it, and never move again.

“Yoohoo!” Griselda King called from across the warehouse, “They're all in here!”

“In where—what are they doing in my lab!”

Disregarding his injuries, King shot over to his mother so fast that Marianne was fairly sure she missed most of his journey when she blinked. Jogging over, she jabbed an elbow into his ribs to get him out of the doorway, where he had stopped short and frozen in place, “Thanks for waiting, King. Now where is--”

“Hello!” Dawn's voice ran out, bright and cheerful as ever.

“--my sister,” Marianne finished, trying to process the sight of what appeared to be a cozy little tea party going on in the middle of a room furnished like Frankenstein's laboratory. She was almost disappointed not to see a few Tesla coils scattered around and sparking with unnecessary electricity.

“Marianne!”

Dawn was seated in a folding chair, one of several parked around an uneven card table. The other chairs were occupied by people who must have been King's cohorts. They must have been, because all of them showed signs of mutation, mostly in earthy discoloration of the skin. Dawn was snugly in the middle of things, obviously overseeing the pouring of tea into an assortment of unmatched mugs, and distributing a plate of oreoes and vanilla wafers. Upon seeing Marianne Dawn jumped up from her chair and hurled herself across the room and into her sister's arms.

“Oh, Marianne! You put on your mask and cape and came to get me? You are the sweetest!”

“What is she doing in my lab?” King demanded, regaining his voice, “Who let her in here?”

“Uh.” Said a small, nervous looking man with a beaked nose, “We had to . . . put her somewhere?”

“That is why we prepared a room!” King growled.

“How considerate,” Marianne said, rolling her eyes before checking over her sister. She grabbed Dawn's face and turned her back and forth. “You okay?”

“Oh, I'm fine now,” Dawn laughed, “They put a bag over my head but when I started to cry they took it off and apologized. Have you _seen_ this lab? I can't believe some of the equipment they've got. So outdated, but it's all fixed up to work anyway, it's amazing. Don't tell dad where I am, just let me stay. I live here now.”

“She's fine.” Marianne said, rolling her eyes again.

“She's in my lab,” King repeated, waiting for someone to share his outrage.

“What a tragedy,” Marianne snorted, stepping away from Dawn so she could check where the intense throbbing in her head was coming from exactly.

“What about _you?_ ” Dawn pulled her sister back, “You're a total mess! There's blood in your hair—oh, that looks nasty! What happened to you two?” Her eyes darted back and forth between Marianne and King, taking in their battered forms.

“. . . each other?” Marianne shrugged, thinking longingly of a long soak in a hot bath followed by a three course dinner plus dessert and coffee, “We've kind of . . . reached a truce. I'll get you out of here soon.”

“She's in my lab.” Bog repeated.

“Yes, I am!” Dawn agreed, her brightness shadowing over just a touch at the sight of him looming in the doorway, simmering with anger. But when her eyes fell on King's exposed hands her brightness was not only restored, but it increased, “Omigosh, that looks really advanced! Oh! No wonder you wanted the research!”

“I wanted it _back_.” King quickly tucked his hands out of sight, “And I want you out of my lab! _All_ of you!” The other occupants of the folding chairs rose as one and scurried out of the room, shoving at each other to try and be the first one out the door, “And tell Gus I want to talk to him. Now!”

“Yessir!” Someone yelped, just before the door banged shut behind them.

“Now,” King turned back to Dawn and Marianne, only to find Dawn tugging on his wrist and dragging his hand back into the open, “What—what are you doing?”

“I've never seen this type of mutation before! Is it at all insect-based? We've really got terribly little data on insect mutations and it's making it hard to do thorough research on reversing—um.”

Dawn shut her mouth, pressing pink lips together and shooting Marianne a look.

Marianne scratched at her wrist under her sleeve, picking out a loose scale and flicking it away, “It's okay—we sort of exchanged notes.”

“Get off!” King shook Dawn's hand off, “Don't—don't touch me!”

Marianne guided Dawn back, glaring at Bog, “Watch your tone!”

“Tell that crazy creature to keep her hands to herself!”

“This crazy creature is my sister and practically a self-made expert in the serum and the mutations caused by it!'

“I'm only still in graduate school, actually,” Dawn said, “But daddy let's me play in the company labs. There really ought to be better encryption on the network where they store the data.”

“I don't care. I want my research back so I could put you back where you belong: somewhere far from me! That's the deal.”

“More or less,” Marianne sighed, “But I believe that was some discussion about sharing information.”

“Once you've returned what's rightfully mine . . . then we can hash that out.”

“Okaaay,” Dawn sat back down at the card table and picked up a mug and gestured to the plate, “Cookie?”

“No!” Bog and Marianne snapped at the same time.

“They've got the chocolate cream,” Dawn said, nibbling an oreo.

Marianne's stomach was past the point of growling. It was past the point of registering hunger at all. A woozy, sick feeling had settled over her and it was making it hard to concentrate. “Darn it,” Marianne said, snatched up a cookie and biting into it.

King gave her a look, “Really? Cookies? Now?”

“I have been chasing after you all night,” She said through a mouthful of crumbs, “I am starving.”

“There's water in the fridge,” Dawn pointed, “No, no! The _other_ fridge!”

“Urgh,” Marianne slammed the door on some gristly looking specimens and located bottled water in the correct refrigerator. She held the chilled bottle to the lump on her head and winced at the contact, “Not to mention blood loss,” She hissed.

“Not to mention,” King snorted, leaning by the door, arms folded and eyes alert.

“Yeah,” Marianne looked over at King's face and tried to pretend it wasn't a twinge of guilt that made her pick up a bottle of water for him, “Here!”

King caught the bottle of water Marianne lobbed at him and the plastic crinkled when he squeezed it too tight. He had straightened up, body tensing like he was under attack. He looked at the innocent bottle of water in his hand and then back at Marianne, confusion all over his face.

“Ah . . . what?”

“Say thank you,” King's mother smacked her son's shoulder as she entered the lab carrying a plate of sandwiches.

“Ow! Mom!”

“Thank her and drink your water! Then go wash your face. Actually, show Miss Fairwood where she can tidy up and see if there's a clean shirt for her somewhere. Then _you_ go wash and change and _then_ you will _eat_ something,”

“Mother, I--”

“Go!”

Marianne gratefully accepted a scrounged t-shirt from a red-faced King and went into the bathroom to change. When she pulled her own shirt off a small shower of scales fluttered to the floor, sparkling in the yellow light. Small patches of scales were missing where she'd been bruised the worst, the exposed skin puckered and sickly pale where it wasn't turning purple. She ran her hands down her arms, brushing free the rest of the loose scales and making sure that her arms hadn't suffered anything worse than bruising.

Dabbing a damp hand towel to the back of her head, she became aware of restless shuffling outside the door.

“Keeping an eye on me, King?”

“So to speak,” He grumbled through the door.

“I promise I'm not going to blow out the side of the building and escape,” Marianne rinsed the hand towel until the pink washed out of the water, “You can go patch yourself up.”

“I'm fine.”

Sitting down on the closed toilet, Marianne pulled up the leg of her pants and inspected the dark bruising on her ankle while she kept talking to King, “How many of your ribs did I crack? At least one, right?”

King mumbled something too low for her to make out.

Out of habit, Marianne swept up the shed scales and funneled them into a pocket of her jacket. Donning her jacket again, she zipped up the pocket and opened the door. She shoved the first aide kit at King. “Do you need any help cleaning up the back of your head?”

“ _No_.”

King entered the bathroom and locked himself in and Marianne found herself alone in the hall with two of Bog's cohorts. Neither seemed inclined to conversation, folding their arms and glaring at her, so she leaned back on the door and asked King some questions.

“How'd you get into the party and plant all those explosives?”

“Caterers.” King grunted.

“It's always the caterers,” Marianne sighed, “Early access to the venue for setup, lots of time to get creative with the decorations.”

Further questions were answered with distracted grunts as King shuffled around in the bathroom. When he finally limped out he was wearing a clean shirt under his jacket, a new pair of gloves on his hands, and his usual dark scowl on his face.

* * *

 

When they got back to the lab they found Dawn cooing over a tank of cockroaches. “Aw, look at your little antennae! Yeah, you groom them, little guy!” She had reached in and was letting one scuttle around over her fingers and palm.

King made a pained noise, deep in his throat.

“Oh, hi!” Dawn gently dropped the roach back into its habitat after kissing the air over it's twitching antennae, “Oh!”

King had slammed the lid back onto the tank the second Dawn's hand was out of the way, “Don't touch the specimens!”

“My hands were clean!”

“That's not--” He looked at the earnest little face in front of him, then glanced over at Marianne's warning expression. King ran a hand down his face and took a breath before continuing more calmly, “Please, don't meddle with my lab, _thank you_. You're not guests, for pity's sake . . . And aren't young--” King's eyes traveled over Dawn's pink face and bright-eyed expression, “-- _persons_ supposed to dislike that sort of thing?” He gestured with a freshly gloved hand at the roaches.

“Hm?” Dawn asked, looking up from making kissing noises through the glass at the roaches.

“Never—never mind.”

Swallowing a bite of cookie, Marianne cleared her throat and tried to bring the conversation back to recent events—despite her enjoyment over King's awkwardness, “So, King,”

“Yes, Fairwood?”

With a habitual twitch to pull down the cuffs of her jacket, Marianne pulled out a folding chair and flipped it around, sitting astride and resting her arms on the back of it, “Obviously you have a reason for thinking Fairwood Industries stole your research, and I honestly can't wait to hear what rock solid proof you have that was enough to justify you blowing the building halfway to kingdom come.”

King grunted, “It's complicated.”

“Enlighten me.”

“The thief copied the digital data and wiped the system,” Dawn said helpfully, “I checked but it's all completely gone. The hard copies were taken too, all the file cabinets.”

Marianne and King stared at Dawn.

“. . . we were talking about it while we waited for you guys to come back,” She shrugged and sipped her tea, “The thief tore their uniform getting the file cabinets out of the loading docks—which I guess means he had help—and left behind a patch with the Fairwood logo on it.”

“That's _it_?” Marianne stood up, knocking her chair over and kicking it out of the way as she advanced on King, “You endangered my family's lives because of a piece of uniform? You don't even know if it was actually an employee wearing that uniform! It's not like they're kept under lock and key and who would be so recklessly stupid to wear their work uniform while committing a robbery?”

“Let go of my coat, Fairwood,” King hissed.

Marianne hadn't realized she had grabbed the front of his coat and pulled him down to her level. She gave his coat another tug and contemplated slamming her forehead into his, grabbing Dawn, and fighting her way out of the warehouse. Drained as she was the thought of fighting made her blood heat up again. All she wanted to do was smash King's face in for daring to threaten her family, for leading her on a wild chase, and just because she really wanted to smash something.

Pain clamped down on her ear and her head was jerked sharply to the side.

“No fighting in the lair!” Griselda said, pinching Marianne's ear, “We're short of furniture as it is without any more of you dummies getting into a brawl in the lab.”

“Ow, mom!” King's tall frame was hunched awkwardly over as he attempted to ease the pressure of his mother's fingers on his ear.

“Hush, both of you!”

Marianne found herself propelled back into her seat. Sitting back down so abruptly shook her enough to remind her of her all too recent injuries. The sharp ache in her head kept her sitting down when she wanted to jump back up and push Griselda out of the way and go for King's throat.

“Look,” Griselda said after shoving her son a safe distance away from Marianne, “There aren't exactly a lot of suspects when it comes to who might even know about this research. And we've got a long list of reasons to think it was Fairwood. Besides, who else is researching this bug juice?”

“Don't call it bug juice,” King growled from his corner.

Griselda's arguments were valid, but Marianne just folded her arms and glared at the room at large. She knew she had lost her temper and acted badly and the embarrassment of losing control—and the twinge of shame when she glanced at King's ripening bruises—made her retreat behind the protection of sullen silence.

“Anyway, I believe it,” Dawn said, “You know how dad has been taking a “whatever it takes” attitude.”

“Dad would never--!” Marianne began to object.

“ _And_ ,” Dawn interrupted, “he's been very careful not to ask too many questions about the researchers’ methods. He's got half a dozen teams across the country working on this, each team headed up by corporate officials that have been given almost complete freedom in their operations. That's a nice sized pool of suspects to work with.”

“Dawn, you're so calm about all this that I'm starting to think they drugged you.”

King flung his hands up in surrender when Marianne shot him a sharp look, “Didn't give her a thing!”

“He wanted to give her something to knock her out,” Griselda said helpfully, “but we didn't want to overdose her or cause an allergic reaction so we called it quits on the idea.”

“You were going to drug my sister?!”

“I didn't!” King insisted.

“But you would have!”

“Only if I knew it was safe!”

“That doesn't make it better!”

“But he _didn't_ ,” Dawn broke in, “And I'm calm because _somebody_ has to be! Deep breaths, Marianne, deep breaths. And you too, Boggy.”

“ _What_ did you just call me?” King demanded, a murmur of muffled laughter rising up from around the room.

Laughter exploded out of Marianne.

It only increased when King swung around to level a look of outrage at her.

“Now,” Dawn said, taking advantage of the break in the argument, “It seems to me that the best way to confirm if anyone from our company stole the data is to check out the lab. Everything is funneled into the main lab here in the city. Dad likes to have all the information immediately on hand. If your work was taken it would be put into the system immediately.”

“Oh, and I'm just supposed to sashay up to Fairwood labs and ask to take a look at their computers?” Bog scoffed.

Dawn sipped her tea and smiled her dazzling smile, “Both Marianne and I have access to the labs and computer systems. I'll give you my passcodes and you can slip in the back way. When I go home I can say that you made me give you the codes.”

“Delightful. But I still can't just walk in there. Doubtless there's security.”

“Yes, but Marianne figured out how to loop the cameras remotely.”

“For reasons we won't go into now!” Marianne said quickly.

“It's to give her an alibi when she's off dealing out justice,” Dawn explained, “Now, Boggy--”

Marianne tried not to laugh and started to choke Bog scowled at her to no effect. The situation was out of his control and was at the mercy of the sweet little mad scientist who had easily coaxed the facts out of his mother and his crew, then set herself to constructing a solution to their current problems.

Dawn Fairwood was terrifying.

Dawn waited until her sister stopped choking before continuing with laying out her plan, “Now, Boggy--”

Marianne doubled over, wheezing.

* * *

 

“What do you think?” Marianne had put her mask on and tucked her hair under a black knit cap she had borrowed from one of King's people.

“I think you look daft.”

“I'm trying to go the extra mile with disguise. Most of the staff at the lab know me by sight and a mask might not be enough to fool them up close.”

“I thought the idea was to not let them get close.”

“Yes, but you can't be too careful. And might I say your own disguise is magnificent? The baseball cap is a daring touch.”

King folded his arms, pulling his light jacket tight across his shoulders. Griselda had insisted he wear something less suspicious than his usual billowing gray coat and then attempted to forcibly remove it from his person. King had managed to retain custody of his coat, but only for as long as it took the leave and change in another room. The substitute was much thinner, and when the fabric stretched Marianne could see a patterned outlined on King's shoulders, hard edges poking through the jacket.

She must have been staring, because King unfold his arms and shrugged the jacket loose on his shoulders again. He occupied himself with adjusting his baseball cap, which was embroidered with the mascot of some sports team that Marianne didn't recognize except she thought it might be a football team. She kept her gaze on the mascot, keeping her eyes away from King's wrecked face.

“We're going to have to take the van,” King started walking without waiting to see if Marianne was following, “Since we're both down a motorcycle.”

“Mine wasn't wrecked,” Marianne shrugged, “If the police don't hold it as evidence I'll have a friend get it out of impound. This will be the third time this year that I've had to do that.”

“Lucky you. Let's go. Mom!” King called over to his mother who was brushing off his coat, “If I'm not back in--”

“Just keep your earpiece on, honey,” Griselda waved him off, “We'll be listening. Scream if you need anything.”

“The scope of this operation is breathtaking,” Marianne remarked.

King slung a backpack into the van, saying,“Look, princess, I know the concept of a shoestring budget is foreign to you—hey!”

A gaggle of King's people had been passing, scattering nervously at the sight of their boss. King had apparently spotted something that displeased him, seeing as he slammed his fist against the side of the van, shouting as he rushed at the fleeing crowd.

“Gus! Gus, I see you there!”

The unfortunate Gus was snagged by the collar and dragged into the open. King spun Gus around to face him, grabbing the front of his shirt and giving his victim a vicious shake. Gus was at least as twice as wide as King and almost as tall, but only the very toes of his shoes were touching the ground.

“What were you _thinking_?” King demanded, “Handing me a weapon at the party? We _discussed_ this at _length_ and yet it doesn't seem to have penetrated your remarkably dense skull!” He gave another shake for emphasis, “I could have _killed_ someone! And then where would we be?”

“I thought—I thought it was for dramatic effect?” Gus offered, too unsettled to form a more comprehensive explanation.

“Dramatic— _dramatic effect_?” King's face screwed up in confusion over this unexpected response to his violent interrogation, “Why would I--? You know what, don't answer that! Just try not to be so ruddy stupid in the future!”

Gus was thrown to the floor and King swung around in a way that would have made his absent coat billow impressively.

King jumped behind the wheel of the van, twisted the key in the ignition and slammed the car into drive, barely waiting for the garage door to be opened before he stomped on the gas. Marianne waited until they were a few blocks away before saying:

“You're going the wrong way.”

King gnashed his teeth together and swung the van around so fast Marianne could feel the vehicle tipping a little.

“So,” she said slowly, “Gus . . . he's the guy who handed you your staff right before you nearly brained me?”

Silence.

“Is this something that happens a lot? You almost caving people's skulls in? As a potential associate I feel like I should know if this is a regular thing or only for special occasions and particularly annoying princesses.”

The only reply was King adjusting the settings on the air conditioner.

Marianne knew she should drop the subject. But there was something uncomfortably familiar with how he had almost smashed her head. If he really had been out of control, just like . . .

A firm shake of her head sent the train of thought spinning off to the back of her mind and also reminded her that she hurt. A lot.

“I'm sorry,” King said, so abruptly that Marianne almost couldn't make out the words.

“I'm sorry?” she asked stupidly.

“For the party.”

“Oh.”

It was hard to come up with a response to that. King had, after all, threatened all their lives, terrorized Marianne's father, kidnapped her sister, and just generally pulled no punches. Marianne rubbed her arms, feeling scales and bruises through her sleeves.

Did she forgive King?

Some small measure of trust had already been built up between them, yes, but that felt like an entirely separate issue. The circumstances had changed so drastically, so completely, Marianne wasn't sure where she stood anymore. For a glorious hour the world had been painted in stark black and white. King was the villain, Marianne was the hero. But the black and white had run together, turning into muddy grays.

“Don't mention it,” Marianne shrugged.

Getting into the lab was straightforward enough. They parked the car a couple blocks away where Marianne kept a stash of clothing and a spare phone. She always ditched her own phone at the lab and switched it out for a burner. She changed the phone regularly and only Dawn was kept apprised of the latest number in case of emergencies. The burners were also installed with the program necessary to loop the cameras and allow her to come and go unseen.

“Can you do that on other systems?” King asked, looking over her shoulder at the footage from the lab security cameras streaming on her phone.

“I'm not hacking bank security systems for you.”

“I wasn't asking.”

“Good.”

The phone streamed the unlooped footage live to Marianne's phone and helped them navigate around the security guards doing their rounds. Marianne located a computer that would give them direct access to the servers that kept all the data backed up and stored, entered Dawn's passwords, then pushed her swivel chair aside, waving a hand for King to take the keyboard.

“You know what you're looking for, have at it.”

King made a hesitant move toward the keyboard, then stopped, curling his gloved hand into a fist and letting it fall to his side, “I can't.”

“Can't what?”

King's fingers flexed, an involuntary nervous twitch that drew Marianne's eye. The gloves didn't fit right on King's hands and before he clenched his hand shut again she could see that the tip of one claw was already working its way through a hole in the tip of the glove's index finger.

Claws no doubt presented a unique challenge when it came to the use of a keyboard, Marianne realized, and the gloves only made it worse. And he would as soon take off his gloves as she would take off her jacket and expose her arms.

“Oh,” she said, “Oh! Okay. Give me some criteria to go on and I'll start digging. I know these systems almost as well as Dawn. Pull up a chair and tell me when I'm getting warm.”

Marianne scooted her chair back in front of the computer, quickly pulling up the research results she had been going over the weekend previously. King sat down in a chair so far away Marianne would have offered him binoculars if she hadn't seen how he was nervously rubbing his hands together, eyes darting back and forth across the room, keeping an eye on the exits.

They found the stolen research under the heading of “Asset BK: Serum Reversal”.

“They really did steal it. And they actually used your initials,” Marianne skimmed through some of the documents while King pulled a portable hard drive out of his backpack in preparation for retrieving the data, “That's pretty bold.”

“It's not a connection most people would be in a position to make.”

“I guess.”

The transfer of the research to the hard drive didn't take too long, but both of them were tense, locked in the dark room with only the glow of the computer for light. Turning on the lights might alert a passing guard or be seen through the window, even though they had drawn the shades.

“Lucky,” King said, wrapping the drive up in a faded towel and putting it back in his bag, “In a weird way. I had just backed up the most recent results, so the loss of my file cabinets shouldn't be too much of a wrench. I don't suppose we could go looking for those?”

“Not on your life! Even if they're here, if we could find them, I'm not helping you carry them all the way back to the car.”

“Fine,” King sighed in defeat.

Marianne pulled her mask off and rubbed her tired eyes, taking a moment to collect herself.

Someone in Fairwood labs had actually stolen King's research. They'd taken a desperate man's hope. A man who appeared to be supporting a large number of people who had also been exposed to the serum. So many people, when Marianne had thought she was the only one. One was a freak accident, two suspicious, a warehouse full of people reduced to robbing banks to finance a cure? That had all the signs of a conspiracy. Somebody was doing human testing off the books.

Someone in Fairwood was rotten.

Marianne should have been filled with righteous anger, with resolve to get to the bottom of this mess and strangle whoever was responsible. Instead, she was just very tired. It had been a long day and she still had to get her sister home safely and put the police off of King's trail.

“I'm sorry,” She said, putting her mask back on.

“For what?” King asked.

“Oh, for everything, really. Let's get out of here while we can still limp.”

* * *

 

“Seriously,” Marianne patted the motorcycle, “This is yours. I owe it to you. Not just for your bike, but because Fairwood stole your research. And Dawn got you this key chain.”

She tossed Bog the keys.

He caught them, finding they were attached to a bright pink plastic flower. He stood there, helmet in one hand, keys in the other, trying to ignore the tempting metallic gleam of the bike, narrowing his eyes suspiciously at Marianne.

“Is this the only reason you showed up here? Just to give me a bike?”

“Should I have another reason?”

Bog raised his eyebrows.

“Okay, fine,” she waved a hand, “I figured you could use some samples of my blood for your research.”

Bog’s eyebrows remained aloft.

“Maaaybe I had a couple questions about your setup here. And just generally discuss who’s behind this whole research theft mess. Dawn’s been making inquiries, but she can only get so far without raising any red flags in the company.”

Bog’s eyebrows returned to their usual resting place, drawn down over his eyes in a frown.

His immediate instinct was to tell Marianne Fairwood to get lost and take her bike with her. He didn't need a spoiled princess and her corrupt business nosing around and messing up his operation.

But he was still marveling that Marianne had come back.

Once Dawn had been safely returned home he expected never to hear from either of the Fairwood sisters again. After they had left he had spent the rest of the night and most of the next day anxiously prowling the warehouse, waiting to hear police sirens wailing their way to his doorstep. Everything important had been packed up and everyone was on alert to make a run for it on his signal. But the police didn't come and by the next evening Bog called off the alert and let everyone rest.

Then Marianne Fairwood came back, ready to continue the partnership they had hastily formed after they finished beating each other black and blue. Bog was oddly glad to see her and loath to see her leave again.

“I can only offer you coffee,” he said, waving for her to follow him into the warehouse.

“As long as there's sugar then that's perfect,” Marianne followed after him, “You taking the bike, then?”

“I'm thinking about it.”

“I'll tell Dawn you liked the key chain.”

“Hmph.”


	3. Anger Issues

The weeks following the incident at the charity party were quiet ones for those who had been caught up in the whirlwind of the evening's events.

Dawn Fairwood had been safely restored to her family, angelically tearful and frustratingly vague about the events of the evening. Every time she was pressed for details her blue eyes sparkled with tears and the interviewing officers succumbed to guilt and the pressure of her father's disapproving gaze, and said they had enough for now, thank you.

Marianne Fairwood had gone missing briefly at the same time her sister was taken, but had contacted her father, letting him know she had been caught in the rush of the fleeing crowd. She reappeared at her apartment not long before her sister was released, looking tired and somewhat knocked about by her treatment at the hands of the party-crashers. She had been at home ever since, save one or two brief excursions into town, staying with her sister as they recovered from their ordeal.

The Bog King disappeared from the public sight, once again, returning to the privacy of his lair to work on reorganizing the research stolen back from Fairwood Labs. Money was getting tight, but all plans for further bank heists were put on hold until the excitement died down and the city relaxed its guard.

The confined quarters and the monotony were starting to prey on Bog's nerves and he had welcomed Marianne's next visit gladly.

At least, for the first five minutes.

“I won't be able to get a proper sample if you don't _hold still_!” Bog snapped, pulling the syringe away when Marianne's arm restlessly moved out of place. Again.

“How much longer is this going to take?” Marianne asked, her voice bordering on a groan, continuing to shift around in the folding chair she had been seated in for the procedure.

They were in Bog's lab, trying to collect samples of Marianne's blood, hair, and scales. She had agreed to this during the aftermath of their first encounter but when it came to the actual process Marianne seemed to be having second thoughts.

The day was overcast and smothering, the clouds sealing the heat in and bringing the temperature in the warehouse to a boiling point. In the high-ceiling spaces of the main sections it was more bearable, but in the confines of the lab things had grown stifling. Perhaps that was what made both of them so irritable, or perhaps it just aggravated the existing irritation.

“The process would be faster—and more bearable—if you would stop squirming!” Bog said, preparing to try again with the needle, “It's hard enough to get a needle through all the scales without you writhing around like a worm on a hook.”

Bog took a deep breath of the stale air, reining in his temper and adjusting his hold on the needle. He had become more adept at working with delicate tools while wearing his ill-fitting cloth gloves, but they, and the addition of his long fingernails, still made it difficult. Marianne's constant movement certainly didn't make things easier.

“I am not ‘squirming’,” Marianne retorted. “It’s not my fault you’re bad at finding a vein.”

“Oh, please! You’re practically coming out of your chair!”

“Well maybe if you weren’t taking so long.”

“I wouldn’t be taking so long if you’d hold still!”

“Well I wouldn’t– _ouch_!”

Bog stuck the needle into Marianne's arm, arguably with more force than was entirely necessary, but considering that his temper was frayed to the breaking point it was really a remarkable show of self-restraint on his part.

The moment the needle slipped past Marianne's scales she had her other hand gripped around his wrist like a vice. The movement was so quick he didn't even have time to blink. He didn't bother blinking after the fact either, Marianne's golden-brown eyes had locked onto his and Bog froze, mind racing as he fought against the impulse to pull away.

Marianne had gone still, too, her eyes burning with fury.

Bog raised an eyebrow.

The calm exasperation of his manner apparently irritated her, her stillness breaking as her anger flared, “You did that on purpose!”

“Quite the temper today, huh, princess?”

The hold on his wrist became almost crushing and he winced despite himself. Intellectually he knew how strong she was. He had been on the receiving end of her temper once already, after all. Yet somehow he kept forgetting that she was strong enough to go toe-to-toe with . . . well, with _him_.

It was just that she was so small. More than that, she was Marianne Fairwood. Bog had done his research on the whole family and his impression of Marianne and Dawn Fairwood had been that they were spoiled little princesses that daddy kept locked safely away in an ivory tower.

He had never expected one of them to attempt to break his wrist.

Bog glared down at Marianne, his lips pulling back in the beginning of a snarl.

“Don’t call me princess,” Marianne said, between clenched teeth, glaring right back at him, unimpressed with his deliberately fierce expression.

Her grip on Bog's wrist was becoming more painful than he would have thought possible, but he just gritted his own teeth together and hissed, “Any more requests, _your highness_?”

“Hey, now! You two behave!”

Griselda's arrival cut the cord of tension, a small draft of air blowing through the door with her, granting temporary relief from the closeness of the room.

Marianne released Bog.

“I swear,” Griselda shook her head, frizzy hair restrained by a bandanna, “I leave you two alone for two seconds and you’re already back to squabbling with each other.”

“Mother, please,” Bog huffed, putting the syringe down and starting to rub his wrist. He stopped, glancing sideways to see if Marianne had noticed the motion. She was glowering in the other direction.

“Please,” Bog began again, “we are not ‘squabbling’. I’m am trying to work. Marianne is simply being obstinate.”

“I’ll show you obstinate!” Marianne growled.

“That’s enough! You,” Griselda pointed at Marianne, “sit still so my boy can take a sample. And you,” she pointed at Bog, “stop harassing our guest.”

“Hah,” Bog scoffed, “Guest is a bit of a stretch don’t you think--“

“What did I just say?”

Bog opened his mouth to argue further but his mother gave him a sharp look and he closed it again. Grumbling under his breath, he turned back to Marianne's arm and focused on collecting the blood sample. She continued to squirm in her seat and Bog was tempted to snap at her again, despite his mother's warning.

But when he flicked his eyes up from her arm he got a good look at Marianne's face.

Marianne's eyes looked forward, staring intensely at the far wall, her jaw clenched and her brow furrowed, a sheen of sweat covering her face. Her whole body was as taut as a bowstring, the squirming really more like twitching than impatient fidgeting.

Bog wondered if she was afraid of needles. Maybe her anger was just to disguise her fear. But she had been on edge since she'd arrived, long before he'd even mentioned needles. He might have even suspected that she was wearing a wire, working with the police, if not for the fact that she hadn't prompted him with any leading questions. Or any questions. If anyone was listening in all they would hear was Marianne's feet shuffling on the floor and Bog's teeth grinding together.

Perhaps it was simply that Marianne was having second thoughts about their alliance. While she had been the one to propose it, Bog could easily imagine that she changed her mind after seeing the scope of the situation. No doubt it had sunk in that Bog and the escaped test subjects were still criminals, despite a sympathetic sob story.

For all the risk Bog was taking in working with her, Marianne was taking just as much of a risk, if not more. She had no guarantee that his intentions were good and her life was potentially at stake if they weren't. Not to mention that having her secret come to light now would bring about more than just public disgrace. She was working with a major criminal now. The consequences would be dire.

As well, Bog's natural good looks and charming nature probably did nothing to sweeten the deal.

He grimaced, self-consciously, then forced himself to focus on the taking the blood sample. Not trusting himself to be civil he settled on silence and Marianne followed suit. In silence he took a few vials of blood and then removed the needle, much more gently than he'd inserted it. He pressed a cotton ball to the injection site, taped it in place, then leaned back, dragging the back of his glove across his forehead. He liked a certain amount of humidity, but the room was really getting unbearable, especially after being confined indoors for so long.

“There. Done.”

“Finally!” Marianne cried, leaping to her feet.

“You're _welcome_ ,” Bog grumbled under his breath, clearing away his tools while Marianne walked up and down the room, flexing her abused arm to work out the stiffness.

Even in the midst of his sour mood he couldn't help but admire the layers of purple sparkling on her arms. There was really nothing they could be compared to, except armor, maybe. Delicately forged links of chain-mail, exquisite in craftsmanship. There was something breath-taking about the way the scales moved and shimmered with the shifting of the muscles in her arms.

Bog was startled out of his thoughts when Marianne swung around with an expression that was anything but sparkling.

“Oh, _right_ ,” Marianne adopted a tone of exaggerated sweetness, “Thank you _so much_ for stabbing me in the arm and ripping out my hair and scales. I've had just an absolutely _lovely_ time today!”

Bog slammed down a tray of tools with a bang and a clatter, “What is your problem? _You_ were the one that suggested we work together! _You_ were the one who was so gung ho last week about me taking these samples! Now you come in here and act like you've been forced to do this against your will!”

“It’s none of your business what my problem is!” Marianne snapped, continuing to walk up and down the lab, “Maybe last week I just didn’t realize you were going be so incompetent at drawing blood you’d have to stab my arm ten times before you found a vein!”

“Check your math, princess. Three tries isn't the same as ten! And what did you expect? Your arms are covered in scales!”

“Maybe I expected you to be a little better at what you do! I mean, it’s no wonder you’ve barely made any progress on the antidote!”

That remark struck home and Bog's hands curled into fists, his heart pounding over the effort of standing still. He struggled to limit himself to words instead of throwing a table.

“You have no idea how much progress we have or haven’t made!” He spat, voice rising sharply, “You don’t know anything about this operation! You get to go back to your penthouse at night while the rest of us have to make do here with the rats and the cockroaches!”

“Which is probably why you have accomplished exactly nothing except knocking over a few banks! Maybe I would have been better off just sticking with Fairwood Labs! It would have at least been hygienic! Here all we've got is the revolutionary inclusion of a tank full of cockroaches! If only Fairwood Labs had one of those, then we'd probably be just speeding along the road to an antidote! Why do you even _have_ that?””

Her pacing had brought her alongside the tank and she paused to look at the insects scuttling around in their habitat.  Bog could see Marianne realizing exactly why he had a tank of cockroaches as she glanced from them to him. He had wondered if she had figured it out. It wasn't exactly the hardest mystery to crack, but he had hoped that, maybe, somehow she hadn't done the simple math of putting two and two together.

The sharp pain of humiliation spurred him on to continue shouting, as if the noise would drown the truth out of her head.

“You were the one who wanted us to work together in the first place, princess! I answered your questions, showed you my work, you made an informed decision!”

“Obviously a mistake on my part,” Marianne sneered, “I helped you get your research back, no strings attached, and all you've done for me in return is stab my arm and pick a fight!”

“ _Me_? _I_ picked a fight? All I did was what _you_ asked me to! I'm sorry you can't handle a little prick on the arm!”

“That’s not the ‘little prick’ that–“

“Enough!” Griselda smacked a microscope slide on the table where she was working, “Do I have to separate you two? Neither of you are too old to be put in the time out corner or get a sharp smack across the ear!”

“Oh, enough of the nagging mother routine!” Marianne groaned, throwing her hands in the air and moving away from the tank, “I am so sick of it! I'm sick of you and your snooping and fussing! Can't you keep your mouth shut for five minutes in a row?”

Bog's nails tore through the tips of his gloves and dug into the palms of his hands when a surge of protective rage flooded his chest. Red mist was tinting the edges of his vision and his voice shook when he spoke:

“ _Watch. Your. Tongue_ ,” he was surprised that his voice came out in a low growl instead of the roar of fury he had felt building in his throat, “You will _not_ speak to my mother that way!”

“I'll talk however I want!” Marianne was trembling with anger as halted her endless marching, her face white and strained with it. She stood in front of Bog, her own hands balled up too, her entire body shaking uncontrollably, “You don't tell me what to do, you—you—you _scaly-backed cockroach_!”

Bog felt like he'd been kicked in the gut.

So she had figured out why he had the tank of cockroaches.

And now there it was.

There was the reaction he’d known was coming. There was the truth he’d known would come out eventually. Whatever she’d said, however she’d acted when she’d first seen his deformities, this was how she really saw him: as a hideous, disgusting insect.

Just like everyone else did.

It shouldn’t have hurt.

He’d hardened himself to this already. To the stares, the gasps, the looks of disgust and fear. He was used to this. He knew how everyone saw him. He’d been a fool to think she really saw him any differently, as anything other than a repulsive creature.

It shouldn’t have hurt.

But it did.

The anger went out of him. How could he be angry at her for speaking the truth? For reacting to him like every other sane individual would? It wasn't his fault he'd tricked himself into thinking that she might . . . tolerate him. Bog looked away, hiding the pained expression on his face, hiding from the disgust in Marianne's eyes.

“I . . .”

Marianne's voice cracked and Bog looked back sharply, preparing himself for what she might say next. But her expression was far from disgusted. Her face was bloodless with shock and, perhaps, regret.

“I-I didn't--” she stammered, her purple lips moving but her words reluctant to escape her mouth, “I'm so—I—I have to go!”

Her arms shimmered under the lamps as she caught her coat up off a nearby table and bolted from the lab. The door swung loosely behind her. She hadn't even taken the time to slam it shut.

“Huh,” Griselda remarked.

Bog said nothing. He just stared blankly at the swinging door, watching as it creaked to and fro.

Marianne's behavior had shifted so quickly. He hadn't thought her the type to back down in the middle of a fight, and the look on her face just before she ran off, it had been regretful and upset, but also . . . _afraid_.

Scared. Terrified. But of what? Of Bog? He found that unlikely. Maybe she was afraid she had destroyed their partnership? Also unlikely. That wouldn't have caused such a strong reaction. Afraid. Afraid of what? Of . . . herself?

Bog thought of her tense posture, the agitation that left her twitching in the chair, the shaking as her anger built. It seemed familiar, somehow, very familiar. He thought of the reaction that set in after he lost his temper, the shaking of strained muscles trying to relax, the horrible feeling of guilt . . .

“That girl's got spunk, I'll give her that.”

His mother's voice pulled Bog out of his thoughts, “I'm sorry about that,” he said, “She shouldn't have--”

“Pah!” Griselda waved a hand dismissively, “I wouldn't have managed living with you all these years if I couldn't handle someone snapping at me once in awhile. Besides, if I wasn't always nagging you who knows what trouble you'd get yourselves into? Nothing to be ashamed of, I say.”

Bog wasn't convinced by his mother's breezy attitude. She'd taken a strong liking to Marianne, praising the young woman for her beauty and brains. Bog knew it was mostly for his benefit, but he also knew that his mother wouldn't say such things if she didn't think they were true herself. She loved to mother, and thought she'd found a willing victim in Marianne. It must have hurt to have been so roughly pushed away.

“Still . . .”

“She did that thing you do, did you notice?” Griselda continued sorting slides, glancing up to see Bog's reaction to her question.

“What? What 'thing'?” Bog asked, assuming his usual slouched pose, hands tucked out of sight.

“That thing when you move too fast and you go all blurry for a sec. Marianne did that when she was leaving.”

Bog had long ago noticed that his speed had increased. Was increasing. Overall, but also when he was angry or stressed, he moved so fast that other people found it disconcerting to watch. It was something he tried to control, but with only varying levels of success. He hadn't noticed Marianne blurring. Now, or at any other time.

“Did she?” Bog relaxed his arms, reaching up to scratch the back of his neck where he prickled from the heat, trying to sort out his thoughts and finding it hard to do so in the stuffy room.

“I guess your eyes could keep up. It wasn't as fast as you usually are, but that's still plenty fast!”

Bog picked at the ruined ends of his gloves, “You think it means something?”

“Well, I think it means something when _you_ do it.”

Bog frowned at his hands and shoved them in his pockets.

“Keep an eye on things for me, will you, mom?” He said after a moment's thought, moving over to the corner to grab his staff from where it leaned against the wall, “I'm going out.”

* * *

 

The sun was setting and the wind was picking up, the heavy weight of the day's heat abating.

Marianne leapt from the edge of a rooftop and rolled as she landed on the adjacent one. Her jacket was heavy on her shoulders, sweat trickling unpleasantly down her arms, under her scales, and behind her mask. But she kept running, her heart pounding in her chest, burning away the awful energy that coursed through her. The burning in her lungs helped distracted her from the pangs of a guilty conscience.

She hadn't meant to snap at Griselda like that.

She hadn't meant to say such a cruel thing to Bog.

She'd just been so _angry_.

The next building had a higher roof that the one she was running across, but Marianne didn't break stride, launching herself off the ledge and catching hold of the fire escape on the side of the building. It rattled horribly and someone in the building shouted wordless protest, but Marianne was scaling the rickety ladders and pulling herself onto the roof, taking just a moment to brush rust off her hands before her feet pounded across the cement again.

She had been cooped up at home since the party, keeping her father from becoming suspicious. He had barely bought the lie she and Dawn had fed him about the night of the party and Marianne was afraid to so much as step foot outside her room until he was no longer on high alert. Even her quick trip to give Bog the motorcycle had provoked an interrogation that had left both her and her father tense and angry.

So she had stayed home.

With no way to blow off steam, no chance to do a proper patrol. The restless energy had been building up insider her, seething like magma under the Earth's crust, searching for a way to vent.

Or explode.

It had only been a matter of time before something set her off.

She just wished that something hadn’t been Bog.

The two of them were still suspicious of each other, afraid to completely trust, and all too prone to picking fights. Their partnership wasn't just shaky, it barely even existed. They had met a grand total of three times and had only just begun to exchange information. A quick tour around Bog's lair—as she insisted on calling it—showed her that things were grim for him and his crew.

Marianne had imagined a supervillain's lair to be a place of luxury, furnished at the expense of all the banks Bog had robbed, with cutting edge computers and lab equipment of the highest quality. Maybe a helicopter pad or a hovercraft dock disguised under a facade of a crumbling loading bay. Instead it _was_ a crumbling loading bay, trash and dead leaves piled in the corners by the wind. The inside of the building was barely habitable, a junkyard of broken lab equipment and junked cars, tarps and plywood nailed over holes in the walls and ceilings to keep out the weather. Marianne hadn't gotten a look at the kitchen yet and she was afraid to imagine how little there might be in it.

She had been working out the numbers and quickly saw that funding complex biological research _and_ feeding and housing a small army of people would put a strain even on a bankrobber's budget. Obviously, Bog had a lot on his plate even before his research was stolen.

All Marianne had been doing was sitting at home, humoring her dad.

Chest tight from running, Marianne slowed her patrol. She had taken herself further into the city where it was lighting up as the sun went down. It was busy there and chances were good that she'd find someone in need of a fist in their face. She only convinced herself to slow down because she didn't want to be gasping for breath when she found a target.

She just wanted to hit something.

She had wanted to hit Bog today.

The few opportunities that had allowed Marianne to banter with Bog had been enjoyable, as it had been the night they'd met. They'd jab back and forth effortlessly in a verbal joust, giving and receiving equally.

Today's exchange had not been like that.

There was nothing enjoyable about her fight with Bog today. It wasn't fueled by a sense of competition, a desire to show off. It was just vicious anger, bottled up too long, finally released in cruel words designed to hurt because she couldn't find a reason to just hit him. She had known how on edge she was, but she thought she could keep it together. Keep it all bottled up just a little longer, get through Bog taking samples, then go out on patrol immediately afterwards.

She hadn't counted on Bog's thorough methods, how they'd stretch the time out so painfully, and she hadn't thought that having a few hairs pulled, a few scales plucked, and a needle in her arm would fan the flames of her anger.

And she'd lost it. Completely lost it. She might as well have slammed her fist into Bog's face, the pain in his expression was so potent. There hadn't been time to think about things, like what foreign DNA was mixed up with Bog's, what insect it might be. It was obvious, when she thought about it for two seconds in a row, and she had turned right around and thrown it in his face.

Their alliance was in jeopardy because she'd picked up that piece of information and wielded it like a knife, stabbing at Bog's heart. Because she had wanted him to hurt. She wanted him to know that _she_ was hurting and that she needed to let it out. She used it against him, along with every other weapon she could scrounge up. How could she have said she was better off sticking with Fairwood Labs? It was so unbelievably stupid. Fairwood had gotten nowhere in treating her condition and, worse, the research was being handed by none other than Roland.

Rage flared up, fresh and hot in Marianne’s chest at the thought of him.

Roland.

He’d been all too happy to use her “situation” to his advantage. He’d rushed in and taken over everything to do with the serum and any possible cure for its effects. Said that he was “determined to save the women he loved” and everyone ate it up. They lauded him as the romantic hero fighting against the odds in the name of love. He’d used her misfortune and stupidity to further his own position in the company and to draw attention away from his own scandal. And she’d let him. She’d practically handed the opportunity to him on a silver platter.

Marianne bit back her rage. She had slowed her patrol, taking in the sights of the streets and alleys below, treading carefully through cluttered rooftops, avoiding any with lights. But now she ran, faster than before even though her legs were beginning to ache, forcing the thought of Roland away. She was already too dangerously on edge to allow him to get her more worked up. It was a bad idea to let her mind wander down that road.

Her thoughts came back to her guilt.

Bog never said it out loud, but she could tell how self-conscious about his mutations he was. In the short time she had known him he had already made off-hand remarks deprecating his own looks. The first time they had met she had seen how his hands trembled when he'd taken off his gloves to show her his mutations. He hid them at every opportunity, tucking his hands out of sight even though he was never without his gloves.

She knew from personal experience what that was like. Her mutations were much less severe than his but she still felt the need to hide them, even around people who knew her secret. She knew how it felt, thinking of yourself as freakish and disgusting. And she had still been so stupid, so callous, throwing Bog's fears right in his face.

Now she’d be lucky if he didn’t just call off the whole partnership.

Because of Marianne being stupid and letting her emotions get the best of her.

Like always.

Self-hatred boiled within her, mixing with her guilt, annoyance, and frustration. It curled her fingers into fists and itched to be let out. She needed to find someone who deserved a good beating soon. The pent up rage was becoming unbearable.

The sound of someone shouting made Marianne slow down and loop back around to the alleyway she had just jumped over. Her heart, already pounding, accelerated to painful speeds at the prospect of a fight.

“Give me your wallet!” a rough voice demanded from below.

“I—I don't have any money!” a second voice quavered.

Gripping the edge of the roof, Marianne looked down to see a darkly dress man pushing a smaller man against the wall. The dark man raised his arm and there was a glint of metal in his hand.

He had a gun.

Marianne would have laughed in triumph if her throat hadn't been so tight.

A mugger. A mugger with a gun.

It was much better than the pickpockets or purse snatches she often ran into on patrol. This was someone who was putting an innocent man's life in danger, waving a gun around for the sake of few dollars. Yes, this was someone who deserved everything he was about to get.

The fire escape creaked under her feet, but the noise was masked by the distant rumble of traffic. She was more worried that the mugger would hear her heart drumming against her ribs as she crept down to the alleyway, moving as swiftly as silence allowed. She didn't want to risk alerting the mugger to her presence.

Or to scare him away.

“I'm not playing games!” he shouted, just as Marianne's boots touched down on the grimy asphalt, the smell of garbage souring in her nose and mouth.

The victim whimpered when the muzzle of the gun was shoved closer to his face, “No—no! Please!”

Neither of the men noticed her approach. She was almost upon them when the mugger cocked the gun.

Marianne's heart jumped.

A mugger with a gun.

A mugger with the intent to kill.

Everything she did to stop him would be justified. She wouldn't hurt him too badly, just enough to work off some of that anger. That is, to subdue him. She would keep herself under control this time. She wouldn't even break anything.

Anything important, anyway.

“Hey!” She yelled, pulling one of her collapsible batons from under her coat. She gave it a quick flick to extend it to it's full length, slashing the air to make sure it locked in position.

She cracked the mugger's wrist when he spun on his heel to point the gun at her.

The gun clattered to the ground.

Fortunately the impact didn't set it off, but Marianne wasn't really paying attention to that.

She dropped her baton and grabbed the mugger's wrist, relishing the sharp cry of pain he made. She pulled her other arm back in preparation for a punch then decked him across the face. He staggered, but Marianne's hold on his wrist kept him from getting away.

Oh, had that felt _good._

The seething mess of anger and guilt flooded out of her chest and into her fists as she punched him again, this time in the gut, doubling him over. But he wasn't down yet. She wouldn't let him. All the rage was burning up, fueling her attack before dissipating into smoke. She couldn't stop until it was completely gone.

The mugger's victim seized the chance to escape and Marianne was vaguely aware of his departure. If she had thought about it she would have come to the conclusion that she couldn't have cared less if he stayed or went, just so long as he didn't get in her way.

The first punch was always the best. The shifting of a huge weight off her chest. But each subsequent blow was less potent than the one before and she had to hit the mugger again and again to achieve a fraction of the relief.

That was fine.

A few more hits wouldn't be too much.

She was just subduing him.

He deserved it.

Just a few more.

The mugger's face was slick with blood and her fist was coated to match. Something crunched beneath her fist. It might have been his nose. She didn't care. Not about that, not about the man's desperate pleas for her to stop.

He deserved this.

And she needed this.

There was still so much anger and all she could think about was getting rid of its burning, frantic energy. It wasn't enough yet. Just a few more.

Just a few more.

Pulling her arm back to aim another punch, she found her arm caught.

“That's enough, tough girl.”

Marianne released the mugger, spinning around to confront her new opponent.

“You!” she gasped, lost in the whirlwind of emotions and adrenaline, unsure of how she felt about Bog's sudden appearance. He had her wrist firmly in his grasp. Blood was dripping from her knuckles and onto his glove, spotting black on the gray cloth in the dim light. His face was still and unreadable.

“You _followed_ me?” Marianne yanked her hand free, her question coming out nearly as a shriek. Having her outlet so abruptly cut off seemed to make her anger double. She felt betrayed, exposed, wondering how long he had been following her, how much he had seen. Was this the first time, or had he tailed her before?

How _dare_ he.

“He's had enough,” Bog said, voice calm, face still expressionless, “Let him go.”

“You don’t tell me what’s enough!” Marianne hissed. “This scumbag was going to kill somebody!”

“And you stopped him. But now it’s time to stop. Calm down.”

Those sensible words, so softly spoken, made Marianne see red.

_Darlin’ just calm down, you’re just misunderstanding._

“You don’t _ever_ get to tell me when to calm down!” she raged at Bog, at Roland, at the world. She hated the calm, placating voice Bog used. It was the same one everyone used, as if they were talking to a small child throwing a temper tantrum.

_Marianne, dear, just calm down, please._

_You make such a big deal out of everything!_

Calm down. Be quiet. Be complacent. Don’t get upset. Smile. Smile. _Smile_.

She wanted to smash the condescending looks off their faces.

She just wanted to feel some relief from this terrible energy that made her heart race so hard she couldn't breathe. Was that so much to ask?

No. No it wasn't.

A noise, the noise of a man dragging himself to his feet, hand muffling the noise of his sobbing, snapped Marianne's attention away from Bog and back to the mugger.

He was making a break for it.

“Get back here!” Marianne lunged forward.

Bog's arm caught her around the waist and hauled her back. He turned, putting himself between her and the mugger.

“He's getting away!” She shrieked.

“Let him go,” Bog said, still infuriatingly calm.

The mugger ran past them and out of the alleyway, disappearing around the corner.

“No!”

Frantically, Marianne fought to free herself, clawing at his arms, his chest, scrabbling at his neck in a vain attempt to climb over him. Climb over him, tear her way through, just anything to be free of him, to be free of this uncontrollable rage.

Her fingernails scraped over the plates around Bog's neck, suddenly finding purchase in a slight crevice. Without thinking, except that she had found something to tear apart, she attacked the weakness, digging in her fingers and pulling down sharply.

Something tore, the feeling and sound satisfying.

But Bog's scream was chilling.

The red haze clouding Marianne's mind evaporated at the shrill sound of pain.

Bog's arm went slack and he collapsed to his knees, Marianne's bloody hands frozen in the air as he slipped from her grasp. He clutched at his neck, pressing his hand against the tear.

“Bog?” Marianne was staring at her hands, seeing Bog's face between her fingers, blurred because her eyes were riveted on the blood coating her hands. She was afraid to bring him into focus. There was safety, distance, in keeping his face blurred.

Even so, she could see him ripping at the buttons of his coat until the top one popped off and he could pull the collar away from his neck.

She wanted to look away.

She made herself lower her hands and watch.

The ridge that had grown around Bog's neck like a collar had been torn half off. It peeled away from the rest of his neck, a small patch of skin still stretched over it, bridging the gap. Bog hissed as he explored the spot with his gloved hand, sliding his fingers between the ridge and his neck. He peeled away the remaining bit of skin from the plate, like he was ripping off a bandage.

Marianne stared.

There seemed to have been a thin layer of skin between the collar and his neck, but it had stuck to the underside of the plate, pieces torn off and dots of blood forming in the raw patches.

She had hurt him.

Lost control again.

Almost beaten another criminal half to death. She probably would have killed him, if Bog hadn't intervened. If Bog hadn't gotten caught in the crossfire of her rage.

“Bog,” her voice was a whisper, “I didn't . . .”

“We need to leave,” Bog said, face pained but calm. He glanced down at the blood on his fingers and his face pinched a littler tighter.

Marianne expected Bog to be furious. To be filled with that same voiceless fury that had taken him over after she punched him at the party, teetering on the edge of control.

“It's okay,” he said, rising stiffly to his feet.

Marianne automatically put out a hand to help him, then started to pull away again when she remembered the blood.

Bog took her hand and pulled himself up, leaning on her arm for a moment while he got his balance, “It's okay.”

“Okay?” Marianne felt tears coming now, “ _Okay_?” How is any of this _okay_?”

“It was coming off anyway. You just helped it along. A bit earlier than it was ready, but it isn't your fault.”

Not her fault?

They climbed the side of the building, Bog retrieving his fallen staff and her baton before they began their ascent. Of course it was her fault. It was always her fault. Every time she told herself she wouldn't lose it, but every time . . .

They crossed several rooftops, heading away from the crowded center of the city and in the direction of the warehouse, only stopping to rest when they found a quiet, unlit rooftop where they could sit on the edge and let their legs dangle over the dark streets far below.

Marianne pressed the palms of her hands into her eyes, pressing back tears, refusing to cry. But there was still blood drying on her hands and the smell of it filled her nose, prompting a replay in her mind of the way Bog's skin had torn in her hands.

“I can't control myself. I try and try to convince myself I've got it handled but I don't. I lose control. People get hurt. They always get hurt. I--”

“Marianne . . .” a hand touched her shoulder, making her look up into gentle blue eyes that held no anger, only sadness, “How long has this been happening?”

She looked away again.

“About a year ago. Just . . . just sort of restless. A restlessness that wouldn't go away. I ignored it. Or tried to. But it just built up until I'd snap, lash out at anyone around me.  It was just—I just needed to get _out_. Away from their hovering, from the suffocation of being hidden like some embarrassing mistake!”

Head in her hands, Marianne's breathing hitched, uncomfortably close to the beginning of sobbing. Bog's hand was still on her shoulder and she wished he would take it away. She didn't deserve comfort. Everything was her own fault. Her own stupidity in action.

“It just got worse,” Marianne dug her fingers through her hair, “I—I started getting out. Mask and everything. It helped. Because if I stayed locked up any longer . . . I snapped at Dawn. Once. On a bad day. I didn't hurt her, but for a moment . . . I _wanted to._ ”

It was something she had never said out loud, but now it poured out of her along with every twisted thing that had been inside her.

“I swear this all started off as something better. Not just sneaking out in a mask to blow off steam. To help people. Be useful where I could. I've done stakeouts, surveillance, even managed to tip the police off so they could bust some drug rings. But it all started getting . . . narrow. Just me looking for someone to hit. Someone who deserved it,” tears threatened again as she felt the confession slipping out, “Just, anything to get rid of that horrible feeling in my chest.”

She couldn’t continue. It was all she could do to hold back tears of shame and frustration. But she wouldn’t cry, she wouldn’t. She'd sit there, curled in on herself in silence all night, but she refused to cry.

“Marianne . . . I'm so sorry.”

For teaming up with an unstable thrill seeker, no doubt.

“I'm sorry I didn't see the signs—didn't put it all together the day we met. I can't believe—I've been such an idiot! This is all my fault!”

Marianne blinked, sitting up straight, feeling the cool wind ruffle her hair.

“What?”

“I mean,” Bog had his hands tucked out of sight, but he kept pulling one or the other out so he could gesture, “I've read the news articles about you, as a vigilante. And that night we met, when we fought—I should have _seen_. Warned you.”

“What are you talking about? Warn me about what?”

“The aggression, uncontrollable anger. Everything that happened today. It's the serum, one of the side effects of the serum, that has affected nearly every test subject. I thought—if I was thinking at all—that the version of the serum used on you might have been different and not everyone is affected . . .”

“The party,” Marianne said, her thoughts tripping over each other in a tangle, “At the party, you--?”

Bog nodded, hissing when the movement reminded him of the tear on his neck.

“Oh.”

Marianne stared at her hands.

A giggle crawled up her throat, escaping as a broken little sound that quickly died in the cool night air. But there were reinforcements following right behind, bursting out of Marianne in a harsh fit of laughter. It rocked her body so hard that she wrapped her arms around herself to try and keep it all in, her legs kicking back and forth against the ledge.

“I'm . . . I'm not going crazy!”

All this time . . . all this time she thought was was losing it. That the stress of the last year had been chipping away at her mask of humanity, that any kindness and love she had possessed had just been there to hide the twisted violence at her core. She had thought she was just an evil, horrible person, but now Bog was telling her that she was just . . . just basically having a nasty side effect from medication. It didn't fix anything, but still. She felt relieved.

“I guess,” Bog said, watching her hysterics with some alarm, “I guess it depends what you mean by 'going crazy'.”

“Oh, shut up!”

Marianne, still laughing, leaned her head against Bog's shoulder. She would have hugged him if she hadn't been worried about hurting his neck any further. She wanted to hug _somebody_. Get on the phone and scream at someone to buy a cake because they were celebrating Marianne being officially not an unhinged, bloodthirsty monster.

But there was no one to tell.

The thought was sobering and her laughter finally trailed off. She leaned a little closer to Bog, catching the cuff of his coat in her hand and squeezing it, afraid that taking his hand would make him leave. She could feel that rigid plates on Bog's shoulders, pressed against her cheek, and she was reminded of their fight.

“I'm sorry for what I said in the lab today,” she said, pulling away and looking down at her boots.

“Um?” Bog had frozen when she leaned on him, but was thawing now, nervously rubbing his shoulder.

“What I called you.”

“Oh.”

“I should have never--”

“It doesn't matter. Uh, look, I've been trying to get together some treatments to counter the rage problem but so far the most effective thing has been to just . . . well, fight it out. We sort of have a sparring ring and everyone makes a thing of it. It helps, to have it be just a thing we do. Fight a few rounds. Make a few bets. Loser has to wash dishes. No shame in it. All arguments go into the ring and stay there. And you . . . you would be . . . that is, if you wanted . . .”

Bog was speaking in a fast, disjointed way and looked like he wanted to shut up but had come too far to stop in the middle.

“I know you probably don't . . . I mean, the warehouse is very . . . but if you did . . .”

“Are you inviting me to supervillain fight club?”

“. . . yes?”

“For real? Like, I could crash in on you in the middle of the day and pick a fight?”

“More or less. You'd be welcome at any time. Everyone understands . . . anger issues.”

“That would be great. Well, if your mother ever lets me back in the lair again.”

“Ha! She loves you. Though a box of chocolate liquors probably wouldn't hurt.”

“I will buy her ten pounds. Hey, Bog? Thanks. Seriously, thank you for coming after me tonight. I almost—I did something stupid and almost did something terrible. Thank you for stopping me, for telling me--”

“Don't!”

The harsh sound of Bog's voice made Marianne fall silence. He looked ashamed, wide shoulders hunched up. His gloved hands opened and closed where they gripped the ledge on either side of where he sat. There was a faint grating noise, his claws scratching the cement.

“Everything that's happened,” he said, voice heavy, “To you. Tonight. This past year. It's all been my fault.”

“Your fault?” Marianne laughed at the absurdity of the claim, “You're as much a victim of this as anyone else. _You_ didn't make the serum.”

Bog looked at her with an incredibly pained expression, “ _Well_ . . .”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was written by donotquestion me and I mainly just fleshed it out, so if you've got a problem take it up with her, she is to blame for any feels, good or bad.

**Author's Note:**

> Adding donotquestion me (deluxetrashqueen on tumblr) as a co-author. Because while I wrote the entirety of this chapter I took a lot of cues from her prompts. In future chapters (yes there will be more) there will be writing directly from her, so I should just officially make her co-author now!


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